


No Matter Where We Go

by Liquid_Lyrium



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale and Crowley's Bodyswap (Good Omens), Bodyswap, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Episode: s01e06 The Very Last Day of the Rest of Their Lives, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), M/M, No one ever said the Eastern Gate was on Earth, Other, Prompt Fill, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), The Archangel Fucking Michael
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:01:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24995044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liquid_Lyrium/pseuds/Liquid_Lyrium
Summary: Crowley learns some rather disturbing things about Heaven while trying to fulfill Agnes' last prophesy.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 130
Collections: Name That Author Round Five: After Dark Redux





	No Matter Where We Go

**Author's Note:**

> Written for NTA round 5, second after dark round. (I'm 0/2 in writing smut in rounds where smut is allowed lol). Prompt being "There is a door that should never be opened. It's open." Featuring Heaven's bullshit psychological torture and abuse/intimidation tactics!!
> 
> I left a bunch of exposition on the floor to make this one 500 words, and I went back and expanded it a little and now it's like twice the length of the 500 word limit but whatever! ~~I will fist fight all of Heaven.~~ Title from The Fray's _Love Don't Die._

There are many entrances into Heaven. When Crowley is taken by Sandalphon and Uriel, they don’t take the main route.

They pull him up through a shaft of light. A million light-year journey in the blink of an eye. It’s disorienting. Crowley feels like he’s been dragged against a conveyor belt going in the opposite direction. Like sliding up a steel cable for an elevator plummeting to the lowest floor. Still, Aziraphale’s corporation holds him safe. Protects him from the metaphysical friction burn of going to a place where he wasn’t meant to be any longer.

They throw him in a chair in a spare office—the size and beauty of which are enough that even the lowest noble in Hell would have done unspeakable things to obtain. Bless, _Lord Beelzebub_ would have done unspeakable things for an office this posh, and it’s barely more than an afterthought. Anger flares under his skin, and he transmutes it into the trappings of fear.

“Wait here,” says Uriel’s cool, dispassionate voice. He forces his lips into the briefest flick of a polite smile and a nod. Bites back the sneer and caustic remark that’s second nature. _Don’t have a choice, do I?_ Then he’s alone. Wrists still tied together. He wonders if they’ve set a guard or if they trust what they perceive to be Aziraphale’s total obedience.

_Just stuff you in the celestial broom closet for half an eternity until it’s high time for them to speak with you, is that it? Pricks._

He waits.

He waits.

He waits.

He waits.

He waits.

He’s bored out of his mind, but every reflective surface reminds him he can’t fidget. Has to remain calm and perfectly composed because he’s _Aziraphale_ right now.

He waits.

He waits.

He waits.

He waits.

He waits.

He waits.

Certainly-not-Crowley hopes it isn’t an actual eternity later, but his thoughts move so _fast_ the relative passage of time slows to a crawl. _How much time has passed on Earth? How much time in Hell? Are you waiting for me? Is it already done? Did you make it? Is Hell making you wait too? Are they giving me-not-you enough time to be scared? Or is Hell dragging things out so everyone can get their jollies?_

He waits.

The seconds slow to a halt completely, and not by Crowley's hand. He sweats from the pressure of holding in the urge to pace. Then he wills his corporation to stop sweating at all. He shifts his wrists beneath their bonds.They wouldn’t just _leave_ him here forever, would they? The heavenly equivalent of being locked away in the deepest pit.

He waits.

He waits.

He waits.

He waits.

He clasps Aziraphale’s hands together, thumbs trembling.

He’s almost relieved when Michael strides in. Because there’s _someone_ to convince him he isn’t alone. Isn’t a meaningless, forgotten, insignificant speck floating in all of existence. He hates that he doesn’t have to fake the gratitude in his voice.

“Ah, Michael! It’s me—”

“I know it’s you,” Michael cuts him off curtly. The hand that reaches out and wraps around his elbow _hurts_ but it feels like benediction, absolution. _How long have I been here?_ “It’s time for you to accept Judgement.”

The archangel drags him, walking at a fast clip. He shuffles awkwardly behind. He realizes they aren’t going up or further in. They’re going _out_. The office-like features blur into nothing but obscure white light. “Where are we going?”

“You know where,” is all Michael says with a cool finality.

Crowley feels dread pooling in his stomach, so much heavier than it sits in his own body. _No wonder you’re so strong, angel._ There’s additional fear that isn’t his own. Something innate in Aziraphale’s corporation reacting to their surroundings.

A gate made of pearl, gold, and platinum appears from the ether. A stuttered breath punches into his lungs.

“There it is. The Eastern Gate.” Michael smirks down at him, “been awhile since you’ve seen your old post hasn’t it?”

 _“Yes,"_ Crowley gasps wretchedly. He’s sweating again, in a way his own body doesn’t. Under his armpits, and the small of his back, the soles of his feet, and the palms of his hands all clammy and cold, despite Heaven's perfect climate controlled atmosphere. The last time he’d seen this gate he’d been forced through it. It is a portal that only promises pain, and he had seen it sealed irrevocably shut behind him from the other side.

The door stands open, and the dark anchor of him calls to the yawning void. Only Michael’s hand keeps him from falling through.

“How long has it been now?” Michael’s voice is too contained, too cool to be joyful… but he can hear it. The glee swimming beneath every word like a deadly current. A riptide of something cruel that he’s seen a thousand times before. The same badly-contained flush of ecstasy a duke might try to hide as they lie and say, _‘Sorry mate, nothing personal, just business. You know how it is down here.’_

Aziraphale shakes his head, Crowley feels it happening to his body. “I-I dont…”

Michael doesn’t let up on the patronizing tone for even a moment. “It’s been, what, eleven years? My, how time flies when you’re committing treason.”

“Yes, yes it does rather,” he hears himself say faintly.

_How many times did they do this to you? Drag you over here to the place where Bad Angels go? The place you used to stand watch. Is it just Michael who does this?_

The fear feels heavier than ever. He wonders if that thousand light-year journey would be faster this time.

_Is this what Agnes meant?_

He's dizzy, like a man on the edge of drowning, on the edge of a cliff. _How long have you been afraid of heights, angel?_ And Aziraphale still had gone through with it. Still went through with his hare-brained scheme—his fucking _cock-ups—_ despite the yoke around his neck and the concrete in his gut. He’d still found a way to walk on water and hold onto faith in everything.

“You, you mean for me to Fall?” He fails to keep the tremor out of his voice. _I’ll do it. I’ll do it again. Don’t care if it hurts again. As many times as it takes. Anything, anything to spare you from this._

“No,” Michael says with a satisfied curl to her lip, after surveying Aziraphale’s very beloved face.

With a painful pull, the archangel drags him back inside.

  
  



End file.
